The Mishaps of a Fairly Abnormal Family
by ToxicMKT
Summary: Drabble series of random little ideas surrounding Jack Frost and his impact on the other Guardians. Bi-ig focus on Jack, so if you like him then here you go!:D Quite casual, no slash or deep angst/abuse. I can't predict any pairings or anything, but I hope you enjoy these, if whether you do or don't, I hope you find time to review! Thank you!:D
1. Cold

**Hey there guys!:D So, I'm new-ish to the ROTG fandom (i've been in and out of it for a year and wrote these a few months ago...but only just posted them...) and I hope you enjoy reading these!:D Basically some little drabble-type things, in no particular order or length. I don't know how many or few there will be, so...yeah. Thanks for reading, please review if you like them (PLEASE!) because I kow you guys are amazing and gorgeous, and, sadly, I don't own ROTG at al...:(**

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**Cold.**

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"_A-a-Achoo!"_

Jack Frost didn't get sick. A Winter Spirit getting a cold? That would just be pathetic. Not in his three hundred and eighteen years of immortal life had Jack ever had even the slightest runny nose. He guessed he was just lucky like that…or maybe immortals just didn't get sick? He had been so starved of company for so long, he wouldn't know either way. He couldn't remember everything from his mortal life, not yet, but he was quite certain he'd had a pretty good immune system, even then. The topic of immortals getting ill was so rare, even, that when Jack sneezed, the whole company of Santoff Claussen turned to gawp at him, elves and all.

"What?" Jack sniffled, rubbing his nose on his sleeve and considering the foreign itch at the back of his throat.

"Frostbite," Bunnymund was peering over at him with a concerned frown from his position near the fire, "Did you just sneeze?"

"Um, yeah?"

Jack raised an eyebrow at the four Guardians. It was unusual enough for him to get even a second of Bunny's concern, but the combination of Tooth's horror, North's perplexity and Sandy's…expression over a cup of eggnog, was enough to worry Jack,

"It was just a sneeze, right? Everyone does that once in a while." What was going on with his voice?

"Yes, but Jack, you're a _Winter Spirit_," Tooth ignored Jack's look that conveyed something along the lines of _well, obviously, "_Sweet Tooth, Winter Spirits don't get colds. And it sounds like you have one."

"You're overreacting, like always," Jack failed to clear the rasp in his throat with a cough; why were they always so overprotective of him? He'd spent three hundred and seventeen years alone, he was pretty sure he could look after himself, "I'm fine."

He sneezed again, this time so violently he shot himself back from the hearth and smacked his head against his unoccupied armchair. It was all he could do to not expose some rather colourful language.

Sandy looked thoughtful, more than usual at least, and he tugged at North's arm with flashing symbols over his head, symbols Jack couldn't make out from his position or throbbing skull.

"Precisely Sandy! Why you not speak earlier?" North winked at the Sandman, who had been on the verge of mute anger, before turning to Jack, "Jack, I think it best you sit away from fire. Or go to bed. Or both…"

"_What_? Why?" The thought of bedtime seemed to scandalise Jack just as much as it would a child, and he didn't mistake the smirk on Bunny's lips, "Don't you even-"

"Awh, does liccle Jackie-diddums need to-"

"Jack, you have cold, so you go to bed," North's voice boomed over the bickering Pooka, who was about a second away from being smacked with Jack's staff, "You are Winter Spirit, and you sit too long near fire, so you get sick. Opposite of us, who if, say, sit in snow too long, get sick. You need rest."

Jack wouldn't have noticed it until North pointed it out, but he supposed he had been sitting far too near the fire to be normal (or comfortable) for a Winter Spirit. He had been thinking about his sister, trying to remember a memory so vague, it was almost a dream, and he supposed he had just naturally edged nearer and nearer the hearth, without even he or the others realising it. He probably wouldn't have allowed himself to be won over so easily, if it wasn't for the third and fourth sneezes, followed by another hacking cough. Truth be told, he was beginning to feel awful.

It was with a heavy heart that Jack trudged to his room on the third floor of Santoff Claussen, looking much like a bedraggled child as he dragged his staff along the ground behind him, accidently leaving a trail of ice in his wake (and a trail of fallen Yetis). Jack's room was one he had, at first reluctantly, picked out within the first week of becoming a Guardian. The topic of homes had somehow come about, and Jack had been forced to admit he didn't really have a place to live…just a tree with a good branch near his lake. Anywhere near his lake would do, really.

North had insisted, much to his horror at the time, that he simply must choose one of the many rooms for his own or he would be on the Naughty List for the next century, and though Jack tried not to be too bothered about that, something made him pick one out anyway.

It wasn't one of the largest rooms, as Bunnymund had predicted, nor had it been the smallest, due to Jack's natural claustrophobia as a Winter Spirit. He had actually chosen one of the most average, most plain spaces he had come across, and had tried not to look too excited when North said he could decorate it any which way he wanted. This had led to each and every wall being painted in the utmost shade of light blue, one in particular dotted meticulously with snowflakes, each one unique and each one having taken Jack at least half an hour to be pleased with, no matter how small. The rafters and ceiling were coated with paint like the velvet of midnight and speckled with the silver pepper of the stars, and the floorboards were stripped bare.

He had a large, soft bed, no different to any other at the Pole save it's bedding (checked in shades of blue and fused with dream-sand so it glittered in the moonlight, a gift from Sandy), along with a small desk holding all of the books he had collected over the years, some disintegrating with age. Small heaps of snow littered the ground as clothes would a typical teenager's room, communing mostly around a skinny wardrobe, in which he held, well…. Jack had only three rules about his bedroom: knock, don't open the wardrobe and finally, _no matter what, never, not ever, close the window._

* * *

"_Rise and shine, Jackie-boy!"_

His head was throbbing. Every bone in his body ached, his throat felt like it was made of sandpaper, and he couldn't breathe. Jack couldn't remember dying but wouldn't be surprised if this was what it felt like. Someone wrenched open the dark curtains and swore in a thick Australian accent as a huge gust of wind forced him backwards, the air wrapping itself around Jack as though concerned for its friend. The sunlight reflecting from the snow was blinding, and the teenage boy cursed audibly and slumped onto his stomach, dragging the pillow over his head,

"Go 'way."

"Nah, no chance mate," something was dumped on the end of his bed with a _clink_ of cutlery, "North says you have to feed a cold, and he had the Yetis make this all morning, so eat up."

Jack groaned, and complained and whined, but eventually he managed to pull himself up with a drawn out sniffle, half wishing he hadn't when he spotted the amount of food on North's generously-sized plate. Five sausages, six fried eggs, four hash-browns, a heap of fatty bacon and a mixing-bowl portion of baked beans, _and_ a dish overflowing with mushrooms and tomatoes. It was enough to feel an army, and made Jack feel even more sick. His stomach hadn't been used to much food as a mortal, let alone in the past three centuries…in fact he had only really started eating again for North's Sunday dinners, and even then he barely had more than a sixth of what the others ate.

The first day of perpetual sickness passed uneventfully and _slowly_. Jack could barely keep sane-was this what it was like to be mortal? Sit around doing nothing and causing no fun or snow all day? _How on earth had he managed before?_ North's idea of Breakfast could have kept him going all day, if he'd even had an appetite (he managed a bite of one of the sausages, which his stomach decided was suffice) but the older man didn't seem to get the idea that he wasn't hungry so, despite his raspy insistence, piles and piles of food began to heap up the bottom of his bed. Jack liked to think Bunnymund (who had been shoving thermometers into his mouth all morning and repeatedly insisting he had a fever) was behind it.

Lying on his stomach in his simple hoodie and ratty jeans, Jack doodled unrecognisable frost patterns on his sheets with his index finger, distracting himself from the constant burn in his throat. It seemed his powers and dwindled out along with his health, and even this simple action was draining, but he couldn't care less. _He was bored._ He was sick, he couldn't use his powers, and he was ninety-six percent sure he was dying.

A sharp pain shot through his skull, forcing a muffled groan to escape Jack's lips and he buried his face in his mattress.

_Make that ninety-eight._

He couldn't even look at his staff; he'd tried to pick it up earlier, only for the frost to spread less than an inch from his fingers before melting completely, leaving the wood…well, just that. Wood. This had been flung angrily into one corner until he felt guilty for the inanimate object that had been his sole companion for over three centuries, and managed to make himself pick it up and lie it fondly on the duvet at his side.

"Bored, bored, bo-o-ore-e-d," his throat caused him to whisper, and he struggled not to wipe his sore nose on his sleeve, grumbling, "_I'm bo-o-red."_

No one came, of course. Bunnymund had work in the Warren, Tooth was at her palace, Sandy was spreading dreamsand over the other half of the globe, and North was working on his toys. He _was_ just downstairs, but Jack didn't feel it was right to disturb him, much as he would like to; it was a week 'till Christmas after all. He was only adding to the burden. But, despite this, Jack absolutely refused to lie in that room any longer, and so hauled himself to his unsteady feet, glad no one was around to see him fall like a toddling child.

Picking himself up off the floor, he realised how _cold_ he was, and the sensation almost terrified him. Jack Frost didn't feel the cold, he created it, not suffered it. For the first time in what felt like forever, his feet were _bloody freezing_, and he ended up leaving the room with the thick duvet swamped about his head and frame like a cloak, staff dragging in his free hand. He would just have to make his own entertainment-how hard could it be? _He was the Guardian of Fun, for crying out loud._

It appeared, unfortunately, that without children or powers, making fun was quite difficult when you were sick, cold and, though he didn't want to admit it, _lonely_. Jack couldn't bear himself for feeling that way-he had been alone for _three-hundred and seventeen years_, what the _hell_ was wrong with him?

He did managed to stumble across the Library, a great, circular room absolutely fit to burst with stuffed bookshelves, but his persistent headache gave him little ability to focus. Even so, Jack collected several colourful, hard-backed books and tucked them under his arm, trying to memorise their previous order as he, reluctantly, left the room. Next was the Old Toy Room, a space so crammed with treasures and broken gifts that the door could barely be opened, and Elves had to deposit rubbish in through a cat-flap. He hurried past the much-despised Pool, ignored the main Living Room, avoided the wary Yetis on order to fatten him up in the Kitchens, and didn't even consider the Dining Rooms or Meeting…spaces. He was always so late to Guardian meetings, he had no idea really what the rooms were called.

There was a Music Room, a heavily-guarded Security Room, a Testing Lab, and at least six bathrooms all on one floor, though by that time, Jack was sure he had been wandering in circles for hours. Eventually, _finally_, his sickness caught up with him, and he collapsed against a far wall, tucking his knees to his chin and burying himself within the depths of the duvet. It was huddling there, disconsolate, a fevered cheek against a cool wall, that Jack noticed a curved door fitted into the side opposite him, a door he was pretty sure he'd never come across before.

Books under one arm, staff under the other, Jack hauled himself to his feet and ignored his shaking legs, allowing his curiosity to take the better of him as he stumbled across the hallway and collapsed through the strange door. Much like the Library, the room was circular in shape and yet far smaller, with a deep window seat that overlooked the great expanse of the North Pole. Mis-matched rugs jigsawed together as a pseudo-patchwork-carpet, topped off with numerous blankets, quilts and cushions. For an exhausted and sick Jack Frost, it was Heaven in a nutshell.

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It was early evening, and North came to the sudden conclusion that he had been working solidly on his newest project all day, accidentally neglecting the boy in his care. He knew that he'd kept Phil in charge of Jack, but even so…The other guardians would be joining him on the excuse of a "family" dinner, though really they just wanted to check up on their youngest member…even Bunnymund had been showing a hint of concern.

"So, Jack, how is the-"

North was cut short as he poked his head around the teenager's bedroom, slightly alarmed when he noticed the absence of both Jack and the duvet. Trying to suppress the natural panic that rose in his stomach, he chose the logical route and followed the obvious direction of the Santoff Claussen corridors, stopping to question Yetis along the way (it wasn't like the Elves could formulate proper sentences, let alone remember the past five minutes). After what felt like hours of confrontation, hours of interrogations and hours of wandering in aimlessly repetitive circuits, North came across a door. A door, that in his _centuries_ of living and working in Santoff Claussen, even he had never come across before. And just outside the door, just against the opposite wall, was a small puddle of water that might just have come from a certain hunched Winter spirit.

Pushing open the door, despite what he may have prepared himself for, North did not quite expect this. This, being a simply enormous…what could only be described as a fort, stacked up from the centre of the circular room to the wide set window-seat on the far wall, built entirely out of large sofa-cushions and draped blankets. North almost didn't want to disturb, but his wonder for the situation and pure concern for Jack's well-being forced him forwards, and it was practically on tip-toe that North crept towards the den and nudged his head under the blanket that coated the entrance.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, and he noticed the books that sprawled themselves about the padded stone floor, just out of reach of the trickle of water that dribbled down from the window ledge. North stared at the water for a moment and wondered if he should be concerned. Clearly this was one symptom of Jack having a cold, leaving a trail of melted ice rather than frozen, but it could only indicate the sickness was growing worse. Or maybe he was fixing himself…North couldn't be sure. Either way, he smiled fondly at the sight of Jack coiled up on the window seat, one cheek pressed against the freezing glass, the other on an open book as he snuggled down in a thick duvet. Fast asleep.

North had never seen the boy so still.

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"Where's Frostbite?" Bunnymund tried to hide his concern with nonchalance over the dinner table, biting into a carrot, "'E still sick?"

An hour or so later, and the four guardians settled themselves around North's grand oak dining table, wondering how they had managed to survive for so many centuries with the feeling of emptiness that came with Jack's absence. North strained not to roll his eyes,

"Jack is very sick, Bunny-"

"The kid has a cold, North. He's fine."

"He is walking round, leaving water on floor. Not ice," North gesticulated towards Bunnymund with a chicken leg, "You still think he is not sick? He has temperature, he has gone through three toilet rolls of tissues today alone, he has not eaten-"

"The idiot doesn't eat anyway," Bunnymund muttered under his breath, but North ignored him and continued to speak,

"And he has spent all day asleep. When do you see Jack sleeping, eh, Bunny?"

Bunnymund suddenly appeared incredibly interested in his carrot, scowling, and North finished off his chicken leg in silence.

"Where is he now, North?" Tooth broke the awkward silence with ease, "Jack, I mean."

"In fort, sleeping," North started on another chicken leg, "In Resting Room."

"I didn't know you had a Resting Room."

"Me neither," North admitted.

Day Three of Jack's sickness was uneventful, as he slept through the entirety of it, still snuggled up in the comfort of his den. He only managed to wake himself up on the early morning of Day Four when he had accidentally suffocated himself with his many quilts, mouth stuffed with material and nose blocked. Despite having lost the headache, he found not only was his throat as raw as though he'd been screaming for hours and his nose was plugged, he had officially lost his voice. _Fantastic_. Bunny wasn't going to mock him _at all._ Sitting up with a slight yawn, Jack noticed the slightly soaked blankets with a small frown. He wasn't sweating (he didn't sweat, but he didn't get sick either…) so could only imagine it was the opposite of a frost trail…which he couldn't work out was worrying or not.

Rubbing his eyes sleepily with on hand, Jack made sure the books were safe from any water damage before grabbing his staff and duvet and trudging out, down one of the corridors towards…well, whoever he found first. Over twenty-four hours of sleep had left him perpetually groggy, and when he finally stumbled into North's office (knocking first, of course) he had to support himself on both his staff _and_ the doorframe.

"Ah, Jack! You are up," North pushed himself away from his desk and strode towards the teenager, clapping a bin-lid hand to Jack's bony shoulder, "How are you feeling?"

Jack tried to form words but the effort was like a dagger had been sliced into his throat, and he caught himself before coughing violently into a palm. He brushed his neck with his fingers and attempted to mime having lost his voice…where was Sandy when he needed him?

"You have lost voice?" Even North struggled to hold back a smirk, and Jack shot him his best scowl, "Not to worry, Jack. I give you pen and paper, yes?"

Either word spread fast or the other guardians were actually interested in his health, because within the next few hours, Bunnymund had arrived to entertain himself with Jack's condition, Tooth continued to apologise profusely after stumbling over accidental questions, and Sandy smiled at Jack sympathetically with a _see what I have to deal with _look.

"Are you feeling ok? Oh you can't, I'm sorry, was that mean? Oh goodness, there I go again. I'm so sorry Jack I can't help it I just-"

"Sorry, what was that mate? I didn't quite catch it…can you just repeat that for me-_Ow_. _Bloody hell Frostbite-"_

Jack hadn't been able to control his temper for much longer and had jabbed Bunnymund sharply in the chest with his staff, who luckily wasn't iced to oblivion by Jack's dwindling powers. It left a pretty sore mark, though. He cradled the staff across his lap as he sat on his dining chair, leaving both hands free to pin a piece of paper to the table, writing in a huge, furious scrawl,

_SHUT UP. _

And, eventually, Bunny did.

Despite the blocked nose and complete lack of voice, Jack was considered well enough to participate in the twice-annually Guardian meeting. The meetings had started not long before Jack stumbled into their lives, give or take half a century before (which was nothing to those older than four-hundred) when the elder Guardians realised they didn't really know much about one another or their separate jobs. Their efforts had been quite…misshaped, if that wad the word, and it took them a little while (with Manny's help) to understand that to work in harmony, they had to work together.

Jack's distaste for these meetings was notorious. He hadn't missed one yet, but he always put as much effort in as possible into being late, and North had to disentangle him from several rambling excuses before the teenager promised he would turn up. And if it was one thing Jack did well, it was keeping promises.

It was pure bad luck that he was sick whilst staying at Santoff Claussen, and even worse that he was staying over their Meeting period. Jack had given himself the false hope that he wouldn't have to participate in the endlessly repetitive speeches each Guardian gave (or Charades, in Sandy's case), after a Health check where Bunny greatly exaggerated his condition so Jack would have to suffer just as much as he did. After all, it had been North's idea in the first place to begin these meetings, and so only his heart was truly in place.

"Guardian Meeting 113, Thursday 19th December 2014…is three forty-six in the afternoon-"

"_With a clear start to the morning, but some snow showers expected as the wintry season persists…" _Jack scrawled out on a large sheet of paper, holding the page over his head, which had already landed dejectedly on the table.

Bunnymund snorted and Tooth gave an exaggerated peal of giggles as Sandy laughed silently, holding his sides, all of which North ignored as he pressed on with his report, totally oblivious,

"Elves still stealing cookies and tripping Yetis…will have to deal with that later…toy process ahead of schedule despite indoor snowstorm mid-July…"

Jack gave an enormous sneeze, the force enough to blow away the neat stack of papers at his side that worked out as the rest of North's speech. As the Russian cursed and dove beneath the table to retrieve his work (that was slightly iced over) Bunnymund seized his chance and leapt up, beginning to circle the table with a determined air of importance.

"'Spite what North would _like_ to believe, and 'spite it bein' only a few days before Christmas, we all know that _Easter __**is far more important**_," He shoved a sheet of paper before each Guardian with each syllable, though Jack's only rested on his head, which had yet to leave the cool table, "We 'ave only _four months_ before the _most significant day of the year_, which is why I 'ave taken the liberty o' makin' sheets tellin' ya when ya can and can't come to the Warren-"

"Why's my sheet blank?" Jack propped his note up against his cheek, and Bunny shot him a look saying _isn't it bloody well obvious?_

"As I was sayin'…I still 'ave millions o' googies to paint an'-"

Jack had stopped listening. It was so hot, the warmth was constricting him every which way, his eyelids were growing heavy and his breathing was becoming thick and slow. Bunny's words were fading in and our of his hearing likes the waves of an ocean, and he couldn't focus on anything other than the insufferable heat, the feeling of his hoodie sleeves on his skin. Maybe if he just rested his eyes for a second…

"An' I…is the bloody kid asleep?!"

Tooth, North and Sandy followed Bunnymund's gaze to their youngest Guardian who, true enough, had fallen fast asleep on the meeting table, his face buried in his curled arms. Tooth was the first to move, flitting towards the teenager and brushing her fingertips against his forehead gently,

"I think he's still got a slight temperature…North, have you tried putting him in an ice bath or something..?"

"…Why I not think of dat, Tooth?" North looked a strange mix of guilty and crestfallen, "It is so obvious…I put him in snow drift by front door…"

"You've been busy, what with Christmas coming up next week…" Tooth put a comforting hand on North's arm as he scooped Jack up into his arms, taken aback by his slight weight, "It's not your fault."

A snow drift had blown just against the grand front doors over the weekend, and North had been meaning to ask Phil to sweep it for a while now, but he was quite glad the Yeti had never got round to it. As he left to settle Jack in the cold, Bunnymund stared, aghast, mid-speech before dropping his notes on the desk,

"'E just would choose my speech wouldn't 'e? The bloody whakker-"

It wasn't that he meant to be selfish, that wasn't quite Bunny's character. But he felt he was constantly in the overbearing shadow of North, though unintentionally, and for the first time he had actually put some effort into his report. He had been quietly, possibly, looking forward to getting time to talk when the Guardians would actually listen, and Jack just would fall asleep in the middle of _his_ speech. Bunny knew the kid was sick, and he didn't find the meetings that interesting either, but…

Something tugged at his free hand, and Bunny glanced down to see Sandy, who was floating just off the table, beaming up at him. Tooth had followed North to check on Jack, leaving the other two Guardians alone. Sandy motioned with his hand to continue, making himself comfortable in the air, and Bunny gave a slight smile as he persisted with his speech, glad there was at least one person willing to listen.

* * *

When Jack woke up on Day Five, he was not wrapped up in a blanket, nor still slumped over the Meeting table in the Globe room, but snuggled in a deep pack of snow, so deep in fact that he was still buried when sitting up. For a moment, he'd forgotten he'd been ill. His head and nose were clear, his throat barely stung (but his voice wasn't quite there yet) and the cold was finally sweet and soothing and achingly familiar. Standing up, he brushed himself down before running a hand along a marble column that supported Santoff Claussen, a childish excitement welling up inside him as he left a perfect trail of frost, reminiscent of his first night as a Winter Spirit.

Without a second thought, Jack was sprinting through the grand building as light as a feather, his toes barely grazing the wooden floors as the Wind pushed him eagerly on, glad to have its friend back. The Globe room was deserted save for several Yetis, and couldn't have been more relieved to find his staff in the same place as he had left it, snatching it up and almost exploding with happiness when ice trails shot along the wood from either side of his fingers.

The skylight used by Manny every blue moon (was he allowed to use that phrase?) was as wide open as ever, and the Wind was tempting him, tugging on his hoodie and ruffling his rumpled hair. Part of Jack felt like he should thank North for keeping an eye on him so close to Christmas, or at least say goodbye, and the other part of him wanted to kick off into the sky and never look back. The Wind gave him another, sharper nudge and Jack smirked, picking up his last piece of paper and scrawling something on its front as he was lifted towards the skylight, letting it drop carelessly from his fingers and float towards the table just as his feet left Santoff Claussen entirely.

And soon enough, so did he.


	2. The Cup Song

**Just a baby-drabble with Jack Frost doing what he does best: irritating Bunnymund, as per usual. If you like it, please review, i'll try to get back to you or have a look at your work or anything. Thank you!**

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**Don't own anything:/**

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**Cups.**

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_Clap clap, tapataptap, clap tap clap, tap-_

"_For the love of Manny, will ye' quit that bleedin' racket!"_

It was dinner time at the North Pole, and the Guardians had been in the middle of a frankly, quite average Sunday dinner. North had been re-refilling everyone's plates, the Elves had been trying to work out why the gravy boat didn't float, Tooth had been checking over the Kitchens for any food that didn't meet her standards, Bunny was munching on a pile of carrots and Jack? Well. Jack was playing a cup, much to Sandy's amusement, and had been for the past quarter of an hour.

"It's not a _racket_," Jack imitated, mocking offense, "It's an incredibly popular form of entertainment that Jamie-"

Ah, yes. Jamie.

There was no doubt that the boy was just as kind-hearted as he had been when a child, but his change into a teenager seemed to be impacting Jack more than it should be. Whether this was because Jack finally had someone (almost) his own age to contend with, or perhaps because he was increasingly aware that his first believer was growing up, the Winter Spirit was spending more and more time with the elder Bennett child. This led to him picking up strange habits that modern teenagers _apparently_ shared, listening to strange music (who in Manny's name was _Maroon 5_ anyway? Bunny was just getting his head wrapped around The Beatles…) and…generally doing strange things. Like this.

Apparently it was called the Cup Song, and apparently Bunny should know this, as he was a Guardian of Childhood and supposedly in-touch with the children of their era. Bunnymund didn't really care about Jack's excuses, only that this song was getting to be bloody annoying and he had just wanted to eat his carrots in peace-

_Clap clap, tapataptap, clap tap clap, tap-_

"_For Christ's sake Jack, give it a rest!"_

"Make me," Jack's blue eyes glinted in the light as Bunnymund slammed his paws down on the table with enough force to knock several of his carrots onto the floor, "I thought you liked music, Cottontail."

"Don't bloody call me-" Bunny's words were muffled as he scrambled beneath the table to pick up his dinner, only his ears visible about the ledge, "That's not music, that's hittin' a cup on a bleedin' table…"

"A mahogany one, at that," North admitted quietly, biting into a chicken leg.

"If it's so simple, why don't _you_ do it?" Jack challenged, gesticulating at Bunnymund with the last carrot, who snatched both that and the cup away as he sat back down,

"Fine, I will."

It can't be that bloody difficult, Bunny thought to himself, grumbling quietly under his breath. It's just throwing a cup around for Manny's sake…

As it turned out, the Cup Song was a little bit harder than Jack had made it look. Bunnymund had only been able to make the first two claps before hitting the cup so hard, it shot to one side, ricocheted off the bowl of mashed potato, knocked the tub of sprouts all over the table, and smacked North in the face. To say Jack was amused would be an understatement, the boy was laughing so hard, it was incredible he hadn't fallen from his chair. Bunnymund had never seen the teenager look so smug.

"Just hitting a cup on a table, right Kangaroo?"

Spluttering, Bunnymund could only scowl and slump back in his chair as Tooth and Sandy tried to clear up the mess from the sudden outburst, whilst North (literally) swept up several Elves that had been chasing the Sprouts along the ground, their tongues trailing behind them. It was, as Jack had hoped, a great distraction from his still-full plate of food, all of which he slipped to a particularly hopeful Elf when the other Guardians had their backs turned. It was only when order had been restored and everyone had tucked back into their carrots or chicken or eggnog or absolutely-no-way-is-there-any-form-of-sugar-in-this food, that Jack smirked and cleared his space on the table.

_Clap clap, tapataptap, clap tap clap, tap-_

"_Jack Frost, for the love of-"_


	3. Rose

**Yeah, another one. This is it for now...I hope you're not sick of me!  
****This is a rather synoptic love story...I'm afraid it is Jack/oc, but it's literally just one chapter...you'll see what I mean if you read it, but I know oc pairings aren't for everyone...I'm not a big fan of them myself, but Jack/Tooth wouldn't work in the past...Just give it a try, if you have time, for me?:) This is the very first ROTG thing I wrote (about 6 months ago or so), so if there's any errors i totally apologise and don't worry about pointing them out!:D We all get things wrong:)  
If you like it, or if you hate it, please review and tell me! We're all busy but you guys know how much it means and youre my only source of feedback so...yeah. Thank you in advance!**

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**I don't own anything apart from Rose.**

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**_Rose_  
**

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The living room of Santoff Claussen was great and oval-shaped, with thick, rich fur rugs and raw stone walls. An absolutely enormous hearth bulged from the centre of the curved wall, bursting with flames that seemed never-ceasing. Several plump armchairs surrounded the fire in shades of wonderfully Christmas-crimson, each with its own sleepy, languorous counterpart. Sandy was already knocked out from the constant refills of eggnog, and Bunnnymund and North were in the midst of a heated discussion, so it was left to Tooth to notice that Jack's presence wasn't exactly typical.

There never seemed to be a moment where Jack Frost was still. Whether it was causing snowstorms or chaos or simply bouncing (literally) off the walls of North's workshop or pretty much…anywhere, Jack practically didn't have a moment to breathe. It had been just over a year since he had become a Guardian, and his new…family, was that the word? Were they a family now? Whatever they were, it was still a plain fact that despite knowing Jack for so long, they barely knew anything about him. Tooth, North, Sandy and Bunny had been around one another for centuries and worked together like one, seamless clockwork machine…and quite frankly, not knowing much about Jack simply made Tooth curious.

She found that being inquisitive and the Guardian of Memories went hand in hand.

"Jack?"

Jack was in the seat furthest away from the fire, his eyes trained on the shadows that danced in the amber glow. Unusually for Jack, his skinny form was hunched up in the softest, newest armchair (one that appeared around the hearth almost as soon as he became an official Guardian), unusually only, because he often liked to spread himself out. If it was one thing Tooth knew about Jack, he normally liked to make his presence known, but today if anything, he looked quite ready to sink into the shadows of his chair.

"Jack?"

"Mmm?" He snapped out of his daydream to turn her way, sending her a lopsided grin half-cast in shadow, "Sorry, Tooth."

"You seemed distant," she leant over towards him over the sides of her armchair, "What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, just-"

"_How can you even say that, mate?! How can you even begin to think that-"_

"_Christmas is more important than Easter, Bunny! Sooner you understand, sooner we-"_

The fractious volumes of Bunnymund and North entertaining their typical arguments drowned out Jack's words, and by the time Tooth had shot them an uncannily sharp glare, she had missed his explanation completely. As she spun back around to apologise, her amethyst eyes met Jack's icy blue and he shot her a knowing smile, showing her he was aware of her distraction all along. Tooth grinned awkwardly,

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"Nothing," it wasn't visible in the cosy, dim light, but something darkened in Jack's eyes ever so slightly, "It doesn't matter."

He had lied. What Jack had been thinking about did matter to him, very much.

Jack visited Jamie as often as he possibly could, not only because the boy was like his best friend and little brother all rolled into one, but also because he was one of his first believers. It was a secret that Jack liked to keep close to his heart, but Jamie was not Jack's first believer, and Jack wanted to keep it that way. There had only been one other believer before Jamie, just one, but she had been a very, _very_ long time ago.

It was 1847, and she was called Rose.

She was small and pale, almost as pale as him, with cheeks permanently flushed from the cold and a head of short, curly hair, such a rich, dark brown, it was almost black. She was from Victorian Britain, she was a scullery maid, and Jack liked to think he had grown up with her. By this time he was just over a hundred years old and, despite having so many things he could do, and despite this age, he was still so childish in both mind and heart.

When he had met Rose, only a child herself at the time, he had followed her to school down a dirty country footpath, and he had learnt. The Man in the Moon had never told him anything other than his name, and he would at least liked to have been able to write that down, to comfort himself that he wasn't just a dream, he wasn't an imaginary friend, _he was real. _Naturally, being such an energetic and wild young thing, Jack struggled with his dwindling attention span, but he managed. As often as he could, he would sit beside Rose and watch her form wobbly, shuddering symbols before flying back to his pond to copy them out, the ice his paper and his staff, a pen.

And then, one time, he came back and Rose's handwriting was small and elegant and _beautiful_…and so was she. And it had blown him away. He had been at her side for the past eight years (guessing she was now about his age, he was able to estimate himself at about seventeen years old) but never had he imagined…_this_, to emerge. It was seeing Rose, seventeen and beautiful, that reminded him why he had learnt to write and read in the first place-so his hands could give him a voice that his mouth couldn't.

Rose, he learnt as he followed her home one idyllic Winter afternoon, lived and worked in an enormous manor house in the very heart of Victorian London, along with fifty other servants of some kind. She shared a drafty attic with the four other scullery maids and two of the lower cooks, and sent the majority of her hard-earned money home to her family (a mother and five siblings) to keep them just out of Poverty's grasp in the countryside. Never, not ever, had Jack allowed himself to become so attached to a human, simply because he was always setting himself up for disappointment. But this time…this time, he just couldn't help himself.

It was on a particularly cold Wednesday morning that Jack had fist spoken to Rose. It took him a while to find the best time, a slot where she would be alone for long enough for him to actually hold a basic conversation, and he had added a little extra snow on the Victorian streets, just for fun. Rose loved the snow.

"My days, it ain't been this cold since St. James' froze over," she was running a hand through her curls as she buttoned up her fiddly boots on her bed beside the window, "Can barely feel me toes."

Something forced her to glance out of the single, sparse window that seemed to frost over as she watched, trails of ice spreading through the cracks as letters began to form on the glass, as though being scrawled on with a finger,

"_Sorry about that."_

"What in the world…?"

Instead of screaming, or jumping back or running away, as Jack had expected her to do, Rose stepped forward, and he pressed his back into the glass, as though scared she might feel him, crouched on the ledge. She edged closer and he could feel his heart rising into his throat, the only apparent sounds being adrenaline pumping through his veins as she leant inquisitively forward, in awe as her warm breath failed to melt the frost,

" An' 'ow did that get there?" Rose shivered, mere centimetres from his face as he hugged her arms to her chest, "Mus' be a draft…"

"_Didn't know drafts could write."_

"My god," she pulled away as his fingers slid across the frost before craning closer again as he finished, a smile tugging her lips, "Are ye' the Devil?"

"_Not quite," _Jack smirked, "_Though you don't seem too worried if I was."_

"Where are ye' ?" Rose pressed her face to squint out of the opaque window, "I want to see who m' talkin' to. What's yer name?"

"_I'm Jack-"_

But he never got to write any more, because she was late for her work.

Over the following days and weeks they grew closer and closer, got to know each other better and better and soon his full name finally came to light.

"Jack Frost?" Rose grinned at the attic window, sitting on the ledge and vaguely aware of his presence at her side, "What kind of a name is that?"

"_My kind of name."_

"And when do I get to _see_ this…._Jack Frost_?"

"_It's complicated_," Jack frowned and paused as his finger hovered over the glass. He'd never had anyone see him before, he didn't know how this was meant to work. Maybe he would just always be invisible to humans…

"Jack Frost, Jack Frost….Jack Frost…" Rose mumbled under her breath as she tucked her curls under her starched cap, before turning to face the window and dropping her spare boot on the floor with a _thud_, "Oh my-_Jack_. There's a strange boy sittin' on me window. An' he's makin' it snow."

He only wore a pale shirt with his faded deer-hide trousers back then, having lost his cloak in the midst of a particularly nasty snowstorm over Belgium, and he could remember being unable to surpress a smirk as a tiny, thin girl with messy hair threatened him with a boot, adrenaline hitching in his throat,

"Hello, Rose."

"_That's you_?!" She looked him up and down with an air of a disapproving parent, brushing snowflakes from her pinstriped serving-dress, "Ain't what I was expecting."

"And what was that, exactly?" Jack struggled to be offended by her comment; he was still coming down from the high of having someone _actually see him._

He was _real._

"Less skin n' bones," Rose stepped closer, blowing a stray wisp from between her eyes as she prodded his chest uncertainly, "Ye' need fattenin' up."

"Speak for yourself."

It turned out that Jack was Rose's only real friend. She worked from four in the morning until eleven at night, on a good day, and so she only really had time to socialise with the other servants, and most of them were at least twice her age, so finding interesting company was a rarity. Jack Frost, it came about, was exactly what she needed.

He would come for her in the middle of the night and wait for her to bundle coats and scarves hats over her nightdress before taking her hand and flying her up, out of the attic window and into Kensington Gardens for a well-overdue snowball fight. They could talk for hours and hours on end about everything and anything; he told her about his past (or what little he knew) and about the Moon and his work, and in exchange she told him about humans, about mortal life and helped him with his learning.

There was one night, a few hours from the first day of Spring, a night Jack would never forget, no matter how many centuries he lived through. Jack didn't know what Love was, having never knowingly experienced it, but he had read enough books and heard enough conversations to understand what it meant, and he was pretty sure he knew how it felt. Because every time he saw Rose, every time she laughed or smiled or even looked at him, a delicate snowfall would erupt in his wake, though why that was, Jack had no idea.

"Wish I was like ye'," Rose sneezed violently into her coat as she adjusted the head on the last snowman of Winter, "I'd do anythin' to not get cold."

"I have to leave tomorrow."

Jack wiggled his bare toes in the comforting snow and failed at trying to sound nonchalant, as though he wasn't bothered about having to leave Rose for…well, however long he was needed around the world.

"An' yer chose te' tell me _now_?!" An icy snowball smacked him full in the face as her voice rose in fury, "_Ye' can't do that, Jack!"_

"I've been meaning to tell you for days," He wiped the snow away with one sleeve and scuffed the ground with one foot, leaning on his staff and unable to meet her dark gaze, "I don't have a choice, Rose."

She sent him the most violent glare imaginable before spinning on her heel and stalking away, hands balled into fists at her sides. Jack stood there for a second, fingers grazing his staff as the ice formed intricate trails across the ground, before something in his head clicked and he leapt forward. Just before she was out of reach, Jack craned over and hooked the staff around Rose's waist before spinning her to his side,

"Jus' what d'ye' think yer-"

By the time she'd stopped spinning, her nose was brushing his and she could barely formulate her sentence as his crystal-blue eyes bored into her chocolate, and he shot her a lopsided grin. His hands skimmed the subtle dip of her waist and, hoping he'd got this right, Jack tilted his head and leant in ever so slightly to kiss her, chaste and sweet, on the lips. They broke apart after what felt like millions of seconds, barely noticing he had made it snow, and Rose stared at him for a moment, before slapping him _hard_ on the shoulder.

"_Ow_. What was that for?!"

"It is most improper te kiss a lady wi'out courtin' 'er first, Jack," Rose smirked before leaning in to kiss him again, "Tis a good thing I ain't proper."

Two hours later, with Rose tucked up in her attic, Jack left. The next time he was able to come back to London, it was almost a year later, and she was nineteen, but it felt like only a few days had passed. She told him about the Butcher's son who was trying to win her affections, and how she'd had to arm herself with a rolling pin each and every time he threw one too many stones at her window. Despite the months that had rolled on by they managed to pick up almost exactly where they had left off, and by this time, now one hundred and fifty years old, Jack Frost was sure he knew what Love was.

Much of the same happened the next year, and the one after that. It wasn't difficult for Jack to notice how Rose blossomed each year, growing more and more beautiful as the days went by, and yet he stayed the same. She was twenty-two and he was seventeen, but he couldn't imagine them being together any other way. He didn't know what was meant to happen when she was eighty and he was still a teenager, but he didn't care about that; Jack didn't like to think about when and where, only here and now. With his Rose.

Sickness was not uncommon in the Victorian era, especially not in the polluted hub of London, but Jack never thought it possible for a girl of Rose's energy and stubbornness to ever become ill. She was twenty-three, and her Mistress had become increasingly fed-up of having to take care of an easily replaceable Scullery maid, so, despite her loyalty, Rose was left on the streets by a handful of guilty servants. When Jack finally found his Rose, she was curled up in their corner of Kensington Gardens amongst _his snow_, fevered head resting against the ornate stone bench they had spent so much time on together.

"…Rose?"

Her pale skin was flushed with sickness, her skin raging with heat despite the snow he pressed against her forehead and her body shivering with tremors. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, hidden beneath a threadbare coat, the tips of her dulled boots poking out from beneath the hem. A misshapen hat lingered on her curls, bare hands clenched into contemptuous fists against the cold, and Jack couldn't remember ever seeing such a pitiable sight in all his life.

"Rose…"

"Sorry, Jack," her dark eyes had smiled at him more than her lips ever could, and she cupped his chin with a trembling hand, kissing a spot between his cheek and forehead, "I ain't got much goin' fer me no more."

"You've got everything," Jack grabbed her hand firmly, as though hoping to spread some of his immortality through their touch, "_Everything_ going for you, Rose. Please just wait…I…maybe…I can…I could…just let me…"

"_Jack Frost_," Rose smiled slightly as her eyes closed, "What kind'a name is that?"

Jack would like to have said that he didn't cry. That he kept strong and as cold as his namesake led people to believe…but he didn't. Of course he didn't.

He delivered Rose to the back door of her old workplace, making a pillow out of his shirt for her head even though he couldn't bring her much comfort any more. He stayed with her until one of the other Scullery maids stepped out of the house and spotted her with a shriek, probably alerting the whole of London. He watched the Butcher's son carry her into the mansion before stealing a sheet of yellowed paper and a quill, scrawling a hasty letter to her family, quite glad that his tears froze on his skin rather than the page. For many, many reasons, too many to explain, Jack blamed himself entirely for the death of his…girlfriend (?) and felt he simply must take the message to Rose's family himself. After all, they were only a short Wind ride away.

It had become pure habit to visit her grave at least twice a year, on her birthday and the eve of her death. She had only been a servant, so was lucky to even get a small rock for a marking, and despite it's impeccability to blend in with the surroundings, Jack could always find the miniature headstone. He never spoke, at least, not outloud, opting only to lean against the stone, to imagine her supporting him, to _think_. He had been spending more and more time there ever since he had become a Guardian, going there almost as often as he did his lake. He just needed his space

"You still there, Frostbite?" Jack blinked furiously as reality hit him around the head with a mallet, Bunnymund's face suddenly inches from his own, "You seem really out of it, mate."

"Nah," Jack's eyes glinted with mischief as he leapt up from his seat and stretched, feigning a yawn, "I'm just tired, Cottontail, don't get your boomerangs in a twist. I think I'm going to hit the sack."

He seemed perfectly normal as he left, and perhaps he was, but something niggled in the back of Tooth's mind as Bunny and North returned to their usual debate, something she couldn't quite put her finger on as the teenage boy sidled from the room.

Jack Frost didn't get tired.

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**That's it for now, but like i said, if you liked anything or hated anything _please tell me. I am almost literally kinda sorta begging! _**

**I love you all in advance. Here's some hugs and cookies, and a hot chocolate each to warm you up after the frostbite-anyone else getting Jack around home?:)**

**THANK YOU!3**


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